En Memoriam (rev.)

Figuring this:
that you're down and
put out from all the
speed and weed
that your system
insists on slowly
draining in.
Take it up,
spin it around,
burn it to
a fiery inferno
to singe and melt
your decrepit soul.
A phone call
would have been
nice, but you
were too caught up
in your trysts of
liquor nights
and brandy sunrises.
And when Mary
and Jane coupled
in your lungs, you
relaxed into a false
sense of peace,
and forgot about
lil ole me.
Who's to blame?
The peach or the hare?
Will the rabbit hole
be enough to
satisfy your thirst
for life and endless
spontaneity?
Tell me, love,
if you meant those
oh so perfect words
those three blessed nights?
But we are far from Jesus:
the pills and thrills took us,
and we did not rise the
third day.
Instead you flew
2000 miles away,
leaving me to wonder
why I cease to feel
except when my system
is invaded, by
a shot, a puff,
prescription, inscription.
Writing your words on
my arm with the pristine
blade, cutting through
my defenses like your
silver tongue.
Dancing with a glass
in my cold hands,
trying to drown out
the emptiness.
Smoking alone
late at night,
in a blanket, and
your pants,
swept away by
my reminiscence.
Sleeping with
strange men, trying to
recall your hands on
my hips, the feel of
your lips on mine.
Your eyes as, in body
and mind, we were one.
And maybe one night,
I'll see you again,
and transcend this
fitful parody of
love and loss,
and give in to
another kiss,
hoping for the poison
that lies in your mouth,
along with the sublime
death it will provide.
I would rather die loving
you than wondering
if I was just another
page in your book:
read, turned, and
forgotten, until the
sands and winds of
time ripped and
shredded me, reducing
me to a faint distant
memory in the clutter
of the abyss of your mind.